Mountain Fury
by Sanster
Summary: Find non-compliant Imperial worlds. Bring them back into the warm embrace of the Imperium and force them to see the Imperial truth. For Sergeant Thell Marson of the Imperial Guard, this mission seemed simple enough. Root out the insurgency on the planet Aftus and bring the people back into line. However, the truth can become blurry for even the most fervent follower of the Emperor.
1. Chapter 1

The gravel crunched under foot as I made my way toward the sprawling command tent. Troops milled around me, most seeking shelter from the oppressive sun. Emperor, it was hot. My combat top underneath my flak armor was already soaked through with sweat and I had only been outside for a few minutes. I couldn't wait to get off this fucking planet and to another battlespace, preferably one that was cold and snowy.

The command tent loomed ahead, bulbous and arrayed with all manner of scanning and jamming antennae. It reminded me of some of the local species of insects, which, unfortunately, were extremely poisonous and had a nasty habit of hiding in your boots as you slept. Eventually, I reached the entrance and rapped on the makeshift door with my gloved hands.

"Enter," a voice replied lazily from just inside the doorway.

I opened flakboard door, stepped inside and was immediately greeted by a glorious blast of icy cold air. Holy hell, it felt amazing. I remained rooted in the doorway, enjoying the arctic air, relishing every second of it.

"Nice, isn't it, Sergeant?"

I snapped out of my blissful state and saw a radio operator pointing at the fat, silver tubes crisscrossing the ceiling. They were humming quietly as they worked to pump cold air into the confines of the tent.

"Very nice," I remarked.

"We just got them installed last week."

"Lucky. Any chance of more of those being installed in the troop tents?"

The radioman shook his head, his flabby jowls quivering, a result of being privy to the private food stores of the high command tent, "Officers first. Going somewhere, Sergeant…?"

"Sergeant Marson, 10th Cordean, 2nd Battalion " I answered, identifying myself and my unit, "I'm looking for the comms room."

"Follow the signs all the way to the back."

I grunted and headed further into the command tent. The inside was divided into a multitude of rooms, using propped up pieces of flakboard as walls. Some of the rooms were full of Imperial Guard officers, droning on about policies and procedures and others were converted into private offices. I peeked inside one as I walked past and saw an old Major snoozing on a comfortable looking couch, a blanket laid out on top of him. Bastards. I decided to ignore the rest of the rooms, for my own sanity.

I followed the main hallway, turning twice, before ending in front of the main comms room. Inside, dozens of guardsmen hurried around, monitoring communication feeds, radio links and tapping furiously at data slates. This was the heart of battalion operations within battlespace WQ68 of the planet Aftus. A battalion sized detachment from the 10th Cordean Light Infantry Division had been sent to Aftus as part of a multi-division pacification operation. Apparently, Aftusian natives had decided that they wanted to rule themselves. That's a no-go in the Imperium's eyes. This operation was therefore intended to be a quick strike, a powerful, surgical blow to erase the Aftusian insurgents from existence.

The war had started quickly enough, with an awe-inspiring series of orbital bombardments, followed by hyper-precise bombing runs from the Imperial Navy. I remember the onboard troop holds shaking violently with each booming shot from the Navy's "Planet Cracker" cannon. The strikes had all but destroyed key planetary defense facilities, comm arrays and training facilities. The operation should have been a clean sweep, once boots had finally hit the ground.

The reality, however, was that a substantial amount of infantry and vehicles had escaped from the targeted installations and took to the harsh, mountainous landscape of Aftus. What was intended to be a lightning fast, crushing defeat had turned into a protracted counter-insurgency war. Every day was now a patrol, as we roamed the mountains, hunting for Aftusian fighters. The rumor was that the Division commander was infuriated that one of his best battalions of light infantry had failed to crush a "backwater" planet into the dust and bring the populace back into the Imperium.

I scanned the room, looking for my battalion liaison. The men in the room were clean cut, with spotless uniforms and full bellies. I looked down at my own uniform and attempted to brush some dirt off of my trousers and fix some wrinkles. It didn't make a difference, as there was a three inch gash in my pants, above the knee. That was a close call, courtesy of some now-dead Aftusians with a frag missile.

"Don't worry about it, Marson. There's nothing to see down there anyways."

Surprised, I turned and saw my liaison, a bemused look on his face as he crossed the room to meet me.

"Kale! Good to see you!", I exclaimed, recognizing my old friend.

"Ah-ah that's Staff Sergeant Kale, now. Respect the rank, Marson." He said, tapping the rank insignia on his collar. A rounded rocker had appeared beneath his chevrons, denoting the rank of Staff Sergeant.

"So it seems," I said, eyeing the rank, "I'm still gonna call you Kale though."

He laughed, "Still a disrespectful bastard."

"Only to assholes that deserve it."

Silas Kale. I hadn't seen him in quite a while. I first met the sarcastic redhead in our Basic Combat Training unit. We were both eighteen standard years and he acted every bit of that age. A practical joker, he had a habit of stealing everyone's towels while they were in the shower units. His little joke finally ended when he stole my towel the second time and I ran across the barracks stark naked and cracked him in the jaw. A brawl took place next, which resulted in five tipped over wall lockers and two broken noses. However, we ended up swapping laughs and stories as we sat in the gravel combatives pit, organizing rocks by size and shape for twelve hours straight, as per orders of our infuriated Drill Sergeants.

We had been good friends ever since and fought in numerous engagements together with the 10th Cordean, until he was transferred out of the unit after a life threatening lasgun wound that he took to the gut. And now he was here, seemingly healthy and back in the 10th Cordean.

"You look like shit, Marson."

I shrugged, as he looked over my disheveled and ripped uniform. The combat top and trousers, once a light gray, had slowly turned a dirty brownish tan, which admittedly, helped blend into the harsh desert environment.

"Comes with the territory. Being in a line company isn't easy these days. The Aftusians have us running ragged with all their damn guerilla attacks. I sleep with my gear on, Kale."

"Tell me about it. 'The Hammer of the Emperor' isn't so effective when there's nothing solid to hit." Kale motioned to the 'Troops In Contact' map.

I looked over and saw a large, glossy topographical layout of WQ68, our designated battlespace. Colored pins were pushed into the map in seemingly random spots. Each pin signified a TIC incident. There were hundreds.

"Damn, that's a lot." I remarked, studying the multitude of pins on the TIC map.

"That's just this week." Kale said, moving aside as a young officer came over and pinned in four new pins into the map. He sighed, "It never ends. The worst part is that we have no way of predicting the attacks. It's like when we were on Provis VI."

He was referring to our first combat tour on Provis VI, a typical Imperial Guard action involving millions of troops. The front line, alone, consisted of tens of thousands of guardsmen. Kale and I had weathered the never-ending hordes of greenskins on the hellish mud fields of Provis VI. We both stood quietly, reminiscing about our first tour, until he snapped out of it, clapping his hands briskly.

"Whoops, slipped into a daydream!" He moved to his desk and picked up a dataslate, "Now, the reason you're here."

"Right." I said, digging into my cargo pocket for the most important piece of equipment a Cordean guardsman can carry.

May hand came out holding a battered leather bound notebook. My fingers quickly flipped through dozens of pages filled with notes and sensitive mission information. I found the first clean page and smoothed out any creases.

"Mission?" Kale asked, looking at the map, while holding his data slate.

"Day patrol. On foot. Destination is…FOB Hammer, five clicks north."

"How many?"

"My squad, eleven personnel total, including myself. Call sign is Renegade 3-2."

Renegade 3-2 was my new call sign, ever since Staff Sergeant Galton, my old squad leader, took a Aftusian bayonet in the throat during a routine patrol. As the former Alpha team leader, I had to step up and become the new 2nd squad leader of 3rd platoon, Beta Company. So far, the switch had been fairly seamless.

"Okay, so here's the situation," Kale said, switching his gaze back and forth between his data slate and the TIC map, "Routes Sword and Aquila are black. Off limits, do not use that route. Route Cutter is red and Route Cain is Amber. Route Irae is green, so I'd suggest taking that way. Intel states that there has been no reported enemy activity around FOB Hammer since three days ago."

"Got it," I muttered, scribbling furiously in my notebook, so that I could properly brief my squad before setting off on our patrol, "What assets do we have?"

"Global forecast for WQ68 suggests erratic sandstorms during the day, so the Navy says no Close Air Support." Kale said.

"I guess that counts for Medivacs too?" My tone of voice not too hopeful.

Kale grimaced, "Sorry buddy."

I frowned inwardly at the thought of carrying multiple casualties back to the FOB.

"But we do have Basilisk batteries on standby, courtesy of our friends from the 84th Erdo. You should also have 80MM mortar support from FOB Hammer, once you get in range," He said, consolingly.

"Anything else?" I asked.

"Uh…let's see…you'll have Alpha Company performing a raid on a village to your west, but it shouldn't have any bearing on your patrol," Kale scrolled through his pad, "That's it."

I finished transcribing his words, looked at my chicken scratch handwriting and shut the notebook, satisfied with the information. Kale set the datapad on his desk and stuck his hand out in my direction.

"It's good to see you, Thell. I mean it, it's been way too long," Kale said, as I took his hand and shook it tightly.

"You too, Silas," I smiled, "Now I have to go on this damn patrol, before they finish the war without me."

"Good luck out there," Silas Kale said, releasing his grip.

"We'll be fine. It's just a patrol."


	2. Chapter 2

It was good seeing Kale again and I was glad that he had made a full recovery. I made a mental note to meet up with him on his off-duty hours, so we could catch up more thoroughly. We had a lot to talk about, considering we hadn't spoken or heard from each other in about two years. Not for lack of wanting, seeing as how personal correspondence outside of your unit was notoriously difficult and expensive. I mean, I hadn't spoken to my parents back on Cordea in a year and a half. 'No news is good news', is what I told them in each of my last pict-messages. I'm sure it did absolutely nothing to alleviate their worries.

I made my way through the winding avenues of troop tents towards my platoon's tent, deep in thought. As I walked along, I noticed two troopers, Privates Balt and Torgad, from 1st squad. They were striding along at a rapid rate, basically speed walking. As I got closer, I could see trouble etched onto their faces, a look I knew all too well. Something was wrong.

"You two!" I shouted, "get over here!"

The two privates hustled over and planted themselves right in front of me, hand clasped behind them in the position of 'parade-rest'.

"At ease," I said. They relaxed slightly. "What's the deal? Why do you two look like you just shat in the Sergeant Major's caffeine pot?"

"We were…um, trying to get away, Sergeant."

"From what? I asked. This pair was notorious for sneaking away during work details.

The exchanged serious glances. "Commissar Mills."

I grimaced. Commissar Fucking Mills. My blood boiled at the thought of that miserable, little man. "What happened?"

"Well, there was an issue with a stolen air cooling unit…" Balt began to explain.

I sighed and waved them away, "Go, get out of here. I'll deal with it."

The pair scuttled away, desperate to put as much distance between themselves and the Commissar as humanly possible. I hurried towards our tent, unsure of how to handle the situation. He outranked everyone in the Non-Commissioned Officer corps, even the Sergeant Major himself and he answered only to our battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Chorall. Confronting him directly would be a literal death sentence via chainsword disembowelment.

Too late. I heard his high pitched, nasally voice shrieking furiously.

"Which one of you worthless shitbags did it? I know it was someone in this tent!"

I turned the corner around the final tent and appraised the situation. The entire platoon was in the pushup position, cranking out pushups as rivers of sweat fell liberally from their faces. Commissar Mills prowled back and forth in front of the line of groaning troopers, like some sort of angry cat.

"We will stay out here for days until someone confesses," He growled.

I swallowed. My throat felt incredibly dry. "Commissar!" I shouted.

He turned, eyes narrowed predatorily and marched towards me at a brisk pace. I am not an incredibly tall person and I'm not massively muscled, but the tip of the Commissar's pointed hat barely reached my forehead. His body was scrawny and looked completely devoid of any muscle mass. His face was narrow and wickedly sharp, a perfect match for his high pitched voice. He almost looked comical in his Commissar's uniform, like a child dressed for a costume party.

He leaned uncomfortably close to me, his gaze pointed up at my face. "Sergeant Marson."

I kept my gaze pointed straight ahead. "Commissar Mills."

Behind him, the platoon relaxed when they saw me, some even going to their knees to rest. Somehow, Mills sensed this infraction and whirled around on his heels.

"Did I say you could rest?" He screamed. The troopers snapped back to the pushup position. Satisfied, he turned his attention back to me. "Are you in charge of these men?" He emphasized the word 'men', saying it in the most demeaning way possible.

"I am. Is there a problem, Commissar?" I asked, as diplomatically as possible.

He snorted derisively. "The problem, Sergeant Marson, is that this platoon consists of nothing but undisciplined thieves. I received a complaint from Headquarters company this morning. Apparently, some troopers had broken into their barracks and made off with an air cooling unit."

"Commissar, I assure you, the problem will be dealt with internally."

"Negative, Marson. This ceased being an internal matter when your troopers stole from another company. Under my watch, no less!"

I swallowed hard. He wasn't going to let this go, unless he had some poor soul to rain his fiery wrath down onto. Ever since I entered the ranks of the Imperial Guard, I hated pissants like this man. Petty, vindictive and cruel, they seemed to enjoy when soldiers disobeyed, despite it being their sole purpose to prevent it.

He turned around and shouted at the platoon of men struggling in the dirt, loud enough so damn near everyone on the FOB could hear, "You own nothing! Not even the skin on your own unwashed, subhuman asses! The Imperium owns everything that you see and when you idiots decide to steal from Headquarters company, you decide to steal from the Imperium! I will find out which of you worthless troopers committed this foul crime against the Imperium of Man!"

"Commissar Mills! I gave my squad the order to acquire an air cooling unit." I blurted the phrase out without thinking.

Shit.

Mills turned slowly to face me, an amused look on his face. He had never actually liked me. We had very different leadership styles, plus he didn't approve of my laid back personality.

"You? You gave this order?"

"Yes, I told my men to take it. They were just following my orders. Several of the troopers in my squad were stricken with heat sickness and I acted in their best interests in order to maintain 100% combat readiness." I gave him my best 'combat readiness' speech, which I had used before on my Platoon Sergeant when my guys were caught with alcohol, about 3 years ago.

Mills silently considered what I had told him. He glanced over his shoulder and addressed the men, "Get up. Leave us."

The men rose, brushed themselves off and shambled into the canvas tent, which was undoubtedly frosty cold. When he saw that they had all entered the tent, Mills turned his full attention to me.

"Now, what to do with you?" He hissed gleefully.

I had completely and irrevocably fucked myself. My mind scrambled for any type of response. " I don't believe that looking out for the health and welfare of my men is deserving of punishment, Commissar."

He snapped, "It doesn't matter what you think! You are a piss-poor leader and an insult to the NCO corps!"

I clenched my jaw so tightly that I was sure that Mills could see the veins in my neck bulging from pure rage. It took all of my self-control to not lash out and snap his skinny neck in half.

"You will lose your rank and position for this, Sergeant Marson. I'll make sure of it. Or should we start calling you Private Marson?" He chuckled at his own joke, "How can we trust you to maintain positive control of your men in combat if you can't control them here?"

I remained silent, just in case I said something that would end up causing me a lot of pain in the future. The Commissar attempted to look me in the eyes, then checked his chronometer. "It is currently 1100. You will report to the Sergeant Major's tent, with your entire chain of command, immediately for punishment."

"I can't go now, Commissar. I'm scheduled to lead a patrol in thirty minutes."

His face contorted into what I assumed was annoyance. Holy Terra, what a punchable face.

"Very well, Sergeant. Report immediately afterwards," He said, walking away. He turned, suddenly and stabbed a finger at my face, "And make sure that you shave. I won't have you present yourself to Sergeant Major Holmes looking like a disgusting, feral Ork."

Mills took one final look in my direction before scoffing, "Despicable."

He left promptly, his boots crunching in the dusty gravel.

Great. I was in the shithouse now. I stood motionless in the desert wind, trying desperately to calm myself down. A succession of deep breaths had my rage barely checked. Barely. I shook my head, clearing it, and headed towards the opening flap of our tent and drew it inside. The tent was long and rectangular, with enough room for a platoon's worth of canvas cots and space for a soldier and his rucksack. The floor was hastily put together from wooden pallets and was covered with a thick layer of sand and dust. Actually, everything was covered in fine dust, as the tent did a poor job of keeping the interior free from the intrusive dust. Harsh fluorescent chemlights hung from the sloped tent ceiling, casting a sickly white glow over everything.

Thirty pairs of eyes rested on me when I entered. The tent was deathly silent, the only sound coming from the low hum of the stolen air cooling unit, plopped down in the middle of the tent. The air was, as expected, cold and fresh.

"Where are the other squad leaders?" I demanded, breaking the silence.

A trooper from the rear of the tent spoke up. "They all went to the supply building, to sign for equipment. The Lieutenant went too."

"The platoon sergeant?"

"He's in a meeting with the First Sergeant."

I sighed. No leadership was around. I checked my watch. Our patrol was scheduled to being soon, so there was no time to deal it at the moment. Besides, I'm sure the good Commissar would inform everyone in my chain of command.

"3rd squad. Get your gear on, we're moving out in twenty. Basic patrol kit, ammo, frags and water. Be formed up outside in five." I barked, heading towards my own bunk, "And this thing. Get rid of it." I said, pointing at the air cooling unit.

A small groan of dissatisfaction escaped the lips of some of the troopers around me, but I cut them off with a murderous, rage filled look. "Now! Get this fucking thing out of this tent now! Move! And clean this floor!"

The platoon erupted into movement. My squad hurried and grabbed their gear. The rest of the men disconnected the air cooler and between four of them, hefted the grey box up into the air and struggled out of the tent with it. I left just as the brooms started kicking up thick clouds of dust inside. For once, I couldn't wait to leave the base and go out on patrol.


End file.
